


the unsettled soul

by starstrung



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesia, Future Fic, M/M, Married Life, Massage, Panic Attacks, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Wilde loses his memories of everything after Paris.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 25
Kudos: 78





	the unsettled soul

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [newsbypostcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard) and [hawkcycle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkcycle) for all their encouragement and for yelling with me about how hot Zolf is.

Wilde wakes up to someone shaking him by the shoulders. 

He blinks awake. For some reason he’s lying on the floor, surrounded by broken crockery. The person shaking him awake is vaguely familiar to him. He blinks again. It’s the Poseidon cleric mercenary, Zolf Smith.

“Oh, hello,” Wilde says.

“Oscar,” Zolf says, with a profound relief, and isn’t _that_ interesting. “Are you all right? You just fell down, and you wouldn’t wake up.”

“I’m fine,” Wilde says, flattered and surprised that Zolf would show such concern. He didn’t think the dwarf held him in any special kind of regard. As a matter of fact, he’s pretty sure Zolf detested the sight of him. “I must have just had a dizzy spell.”

He gets to his feet, ignoring the hand that Zolf holds out to help him up. He sees Zolf frown at this. And then he notices Zolf’s hair.

“Well, well,” he says. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

Zolf passes a hand over his head, running his fingers through it. “What? I didn’t do anything with my hair.”

Wilde smirks. “Other than turn it white, you mean? It’s very striking.”

Zolf’s frown deepens. “It’s always been white.”

“I do recall it being a lovely shade of blonde the last time I saw you.”

“That hasn’t been for a while, why would you— fuck.” Zolf’s eyes are wide, now. “Oscar, do you know where we are?”

Wilde looks around for the first time. They appear to be in a small kitchen, cluttered and currently covered in a mess of broken crockery on the floor. Outside the window he can see green trees, which does seem odd considering he remembers it being the middle of winter.

“No,” Wilde says. “Where are we?”

“Fuck,” Zolf says again. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Wilde thinks about this. For some reason his thoughts are fuzzy, unclear. He begins to feel a spark of fear. Has he been drugged? Has this Zolf Smith brought him here as some sort of interrogation tactic? Zolf reaches out towards him, and Wilde takes an instinctive step away before Zolf can touch him, shaking his head.

“I — I think I was in Paris, I was — I was trying to find a way to Prague after you all left. I was lying low just in case La Gourmande’s men came after me again. Is this — is this him? Did he do this to me?” Wilde presses his hand hard against his forehead. Why can’t he _remember_?

Zolf sucks in a breath. “Sohra said this might happen.” That doesn’t make any sense. “It’s just been so _long_ , I thought we were safe.” _That_ doesn’t make any sense either.

“What’s going on?” Wilde says, sharply. He thought he could perhaps trust Zolf after Zolf and the Rangers rescued him from La Gourmande, but it’s not like Zolf wasted any time throwing him off the airship. Who’s to say that Zolf wouldn’t sell him out? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Zolf fixes his eyes on Wilde’s. Wilde isn’t sure why but something in him feels calmed by that steady unwavering look.

“What you’re remembering, it happened, but — it was a long time ago. About ten years ago, actually,” Zolf says.

“That’s—” Wilde breaks off and just begins to laugh. He sees the incredulous look on Zolf’s face and just begins to laugh harder.

“I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor, Mr. Smith,” Wilde says.

“Of course you would be fucking difficult about this,” Zolf mutters under his breath. “Of course I’d get the version of you that likes to be _difficult_. I mean all versions of you like to be _difficult_ but at least—”

All right, enough. Wilde stops laughing. He doesn’t have time for this. “I’d really like to know what’s actually going on, right now,” he says, coldly.

Zolf swears and drags a hand over his face. “Fine. But let me clean up this broken plate. Careful stepping out of the kitchen, there’s pieces of it everywhere.”

Wilde frowns. He can’t tell if this is a tactic to stall or to get him to trust him. If so, it would be a very strange tactic, and everything he knows about Zolf Smith does not suggest a talent for subterfuge. He steps gingerly out of the way and watches bemusedly as Zolf carefully sweeps up the shards of broken plate, making sure there are no fragments of it in any of the corners.

Zolf said that Wilde fell. Was Wilde holding the plate when he fell? He must have been. How strange.

“Is this your kitchen?” Wilde asks. Now that he looks carefully, the signs are there. The kitchen has raised counters, but they’re a bit lower than a kitchen designed for a human would be, and there is a small step stool set in front of the stove.

“It’s — yeah, it’s my kitchen,” Zolf says. Wilde hears the small hesitation in his voice, decides to remember that for later. Perhaps there is another person here who Zolf doesn’t want him to know about.

Zolf finishes sweeping up all the fragments. “Let’s go into the other room, so you can sit.”

“I don’t need to sit,” Wilde says, getting annoyed now. Why is Zolf making such a big show of caring about him? 

“Well, _I_ need to sit,” Zolf says, and as soon as they’ve reached the next room, he eases himself into an armchair with a heavy groan. 

Wilde takes a quick glance around the room, just to make sure that no one else is in it. It’s cozy and pleasant, with inviting armchairs and overfull bookshelves and some surprisingly tasteful art hanging on the walls. Something about it feels familiar, welcoming. Has Wilde been here before? He didn’t know that Zolf had a place like this. Wilde can’t quite imagine Zolf spending time hanging up paintings and picking out curtains. Perhaps Zolf lives here with a relative.

Wilde does sit down, taking the other armchair, perching on it so that he can get up at a moment’s notice. It’s very comfortable. Zolf’s eyes soften a little when he sits down.

“What?” Wilde says.

Zolf shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

Wilde narrows his eyes. “This is all very strange. _You're_ being strange. I’m at a disadvantage, and I don’t like being at a disadvantage. So why don’t you just let me know what’s going on here.”

“Listen, Wilde, everything I told you was the truth. You’re ten years older than you remember. Paris was a long time ago.”

“Then — then where are we, exactly?” Wilde says. 

“We’re at our — my cottage. South of France.”

“Our?” Wilde says.

Zolf looks away for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. Looks at Wilde again. “Yours and mine.”

Wilde gapes. “ _We_ share this cottage? Just us two?”

“Yes,” Zolf says.

Wilde barks another laugh. “No, really.”

“Why would I lie about this?” Zolf says. And he has a point there. It’s a very strange lie. But Wilde has heard stranger.

“Prove it, then,” he says.

Zolf thinks about this for a moment. He gestures at Wilde’s hand. Wilde looks down, and that’s when he sees the ring. It’s simple and elegant, a dazzling emerald set into it. Then he looks up, at Zolf’s beard, at the ring circling it. A very similar ring, clearly of the same make, clearly meant to match.

Wilde sucks in a breath.

“Yeah, we’re um—” Zolf’s voice has gone rough. He clears his throat. “We’re married. To each other.”

“I—” Wilde twists the ring around his finger. It fits him perfectly. It’s just the sort of ring he would picture himself wearing, in those few rare moments that he pictured himself married. If this _is_ all a ruse, it’s a distressingly well-researched ruse. 

“You could have just — put this on me while I was unconscious,” Wilde says. Even to his own ears he sounds doubtful.

“There’s another thing I could show you, I guess,” Zolf says. He gets up from his chair, briefly disappears into a separate room, and then comes back holding a mirror. He gives this to Wilde.

“This is — it’s my mother’s mirror,” Wilde says.

“Yeah. You brought it with you when we moved here,” Zolf says. He sounds nervous.

Wilde turns the mirror around and looks into his reflection. He lets out a strangled noise of surprise at what he sees there.

The first thing he notices is the shock of white hair, just like Zolf’s. Even his _eyebrows_ have gone white. Zolf said it had been _ten years_. Had Wilde really aged so thoroughly? There are lines on his face, not as many as Wilde would have feared, considering the state of his hair, but still oddly unconcealed. He’s not wearing _any_ makeup. Not even a glamor. He pokes at his eyes, but there are hardly any shadows beneath it. It’s the most well-rested he’s looked.

“I don’t understand,” Wilde says, in a whisper. He hands the mirror back to Zolf, because his hands have begun to shake and he doesn’t want to drop it. That mirror is one of the few things he has left of his mother. Why is it _here_?

“I don’t _understand_ ,” Wilde says again, louder. He distantly recognizes that he has begun to panic. That can’t be allowed to happen. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. He has to think about things logically. 

He sees Zolf briefly reach a hand out, as if to comfort him, and then think better of it. There is a pained expression on Zolf’s face. It’s clear that he hates this situation just as much as Wilde does.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Zolf says. “If I were in your shoes I’d probably be reacting just like you are.”

Something occurs to him. “You said that this might happen. Earlier. In the kitchen,” Wilde says. “You said someone told you about this.”

“Yes,” Zolf says. He looks uncomfortable. “We were — warned.”

“Then tell me,” Wilde says fiercely. “If you know what’s wrong with me, then tell me.”

Zolf doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He seems to be regarding Wilde with caution, like he’s a loose animal who could bolt at any moment. In that moment, Wilde does feel like he could. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin, unmoored.

“Something happened eight years ago. You were — badly hurt. The kind of healing that they needed to do, it was pretty drastic. That’s what turned your hair white. They told us there might be some after effects.”

“It happened to you too?” Wilde asks.

Zolf gives him a confused look. “What? No.”

“Your hair turned white too.”

“Oh,” Zolf says. He chuckles softly. “No, this was — what happened to me was unrelated. It happened before what happened to you.”

“So you’ve never had these… after-effects? You’ve never lost your memory?”

Zolf shakes his head.

“Why now? Why after eight years? Will it come back? Will my memories return? Will I—” All the panic that he’s been forcing down rises up in a horrible wave, lodging in his throat and making it impossible to breathe. He stands up abruptly.

“Excuse me, I find myself in need of the washroom,” Wilde says, forcing himself to smile. Zolf looks alarmed by the expression on his face. He stands up too.

“What’s wrong? Oscar, it’s okay, I can—” He makes to put a hand on Wilde’s arm and Wilde twists out of the way.

“Just tell me where the fucking washroom is, Zolf,” Wilde snarls. He sees Zolf recoil, as if Wilde had struck him in the face.

“Down the hall,” Zolf says, pointing.

Wilde pushes past him in that direction. He barely makes it inside before his mind folds in on itself with panic. He lets himself slide to the floor, his back against the door, his face in his hands. He shakes silently.

It’s all wrong. It’s all come wrong. He was supposed to be master of truth and lies. Here, in this place, Wilde knows nothing at all.

He feels Zolf’s presence on the other side of the door even before he hears the soft knock.

“I can help,” Zolf says quietly. “Let me help. What do you need?”

“I want to be alone. I’ll be fine,” Wilde manages to say.

Wilde is sure that Zolf will try to offer his help anyway, try to touch Wilde again, perhaps, with all that devastating care behind it. A part of him wants that. But that’s the part of him that he doesn’t remember anymore.

Zolf is silent for a moment. And then Wilde hears the sound of him walking away. Wilde is alone.

  
  
  


When Wilde emerges, he finds Zolf kneeling in front of the fireplace, placing logs. Wilde stands in the doorway for a moment to watch. 

There’s no question that this Zolf looks different from the Zolf he knows. The hair is the most obvious change. He’s wearing soft warm clothes instead of his usual armor, and there are lines around his eyes that Wilde doesn’t remember seeing, a new scar on the side of his temple. His legs are different too — Wilde remembers those Poseidon-bestowed water legs that Zolf had last time. The ones he has now are quite different, metallic and intricate, clearly arcane in nature. Simulacrum tech, perhaps? 

He looks very good. Wilde can’t help but notice that too. Even in his time, he had thought Zolf was rather attractive. But it’s even more so now. Perhaps it’s the way Zolf keeps looking at him. 

As if sensing Wilde’s thoughts, Zolf finishes lighting the fire, and then glances up and sees Wilde standing there.

“Hey,” Zolf says. “Feelin’ better? Er, you don’t have to answer that. I made tea.”

A hot cup of tea sounds like just what he needs, but Wilde forces himself to stand still, stay uncompromising. “I have questions,” he says.

“I’ll answer them,” Zolf says. “Whatever you want to know.”

“How did we get married?” Wilde asks. That wasn’t what he wanted to ask first. He should have asked about Prague, or the Simulacrum, or about the Meritocrats. 

Zolf runs his hand through his hair. “Oh, well, that’s a question. The answer depends on who you ask, I guess. We fell in love. You asked me to marry you.”

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “ _I_ asked you?” 

“Yeah. Said that I had made you the happiest you’d ever been, and you wanted the whole world to know about it.” Zolf smiles a little when he says this, playing a little with the ring on his beard. Wilde isn’t even sure Zolf realizes he’s doing it. He feels like he’s seeing something private. Something that’s not his to see.

“That doesn’t sound like something I would say,” Wilde says quietly. But he’s unsure.

Zolf shrugs. “Well, you did.”

At a loss of what else to do, Wilde sits down, taking the cup of tea that’s been set out for him. He sniffs it carefully.

“I ain’t gonna poison you,” Zolf says, sitting across from him. “Besides, you’ve already dosed yourself with all the usual poisons, you paranoid bastard.”

“I have?” Wilde asks, pleased. “ _I’ve_ only made it through half my list.”

“I had to nurse you back to health for a week after the last one.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Wilde says.

“That’s exactly what you said at the time,” Zolf says, rolling his eyes. 

Judging that it’s safe, Wilde takes a sip of his tea. He sighs involuntarily. It’s made just the way he likes it, not too sweet, just the perfect amount of milk, and with a hint of cardamom. He takes another sip just to be sure.

“All right, I believe you,” Wilde says.

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Zolf says. Clearly Zolf has acquired an annoying talent of figuring out what Wilde is feeling.

“No, I’m not happy about it at all,” Wilde says. “Because this means that we have to get my memories back. And that means, well, that I have to die.”

Zolf looks taken aback. “You’re not going to _die_.”

“The me that exists now will change irreversibly,” Wilde says. “I will become someone I don’t recognize, someone who’s lived a life that I can’t imagine living. How is that not a kind of death?”

“Don't be dramatic, it doesn’t _work_ like that,” Zolf says. “You’ll still _be_ there, when your memories come back.” But this time, Wilde catches the small hesitation in Zolf’s voice.

“I do have more questions,” Wilde says, deciding it best to change the subject. He’s not sure whose feelings exactly he’s sparing by doing that, but he can’t stand to look at that sadness in Zolf’s eyes any longer.

“Fine,” Zolf says.

“Your legs,” Wilde says. “Where did they come from?”

“You got them for me,” Zolf says. “After I lost my water legs.”

“Then — then you’re not a cleric of Poseidon anymore?”

“Nope,” Zolf says. “And I promise it’s not an interesting story.”

“So you can’t heal anymore?” Wilde says.

“I didn’t say that,” Zolf says. His expression darkens. “Why? Are you hurt? I didn’t think you hit your head when you fell, but—”

Wilde holds up a hand, cutting Zolf off. Gods, had Zolf always been this overbearingly protective? And this was who Wilde had married in the future? It doesn’t make any sense, no matter how good-looking Zolf is.

“I’m not hurt. But perhaps you could heal my memories back.”

Zolf frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t think this is the kind of thing I can heal, Oscar.”

Every time Zolf calls him by his first name, it disorients him. Wilde takes a breath. “Then you won’t help me. You won’t even try.”

“Of course I’ll help you,” Zolf says, scowling, and _there’s_ some of that bad temper Wilde remembers from his own Zolf. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

Wilde raises an eyebrow. “The last time I saw you, you abandoned me in a city still swarming with La Gourmande’s men waiting to capture me, so that you could sail off to Prague. Forgive me if I find it difficult to trust you.” 

The words are chosen carefully to hurt Zolf, and they succeed in doing that. He sees Zolf wince, sees the pain in his eyes. It’s oddly fascinating. Wilde has never been able to hurt anyone this way. It is the sort of hurt you can only inflict on someone who cares for you very much.

He wishes, suddenly, that he could take the words back. But he knows better than anyone else that that’s not how it works.

“We had to do it then,” Zolf says, quietly. “It was the only way.”

“I know,” Wilde says, turning away. He feels that he’s revealed too much of himself and he hates that. “That wasn’t — it doesn’t matter anymore. Clearly my older counterpart got over it. Why should it trouble me?”

“It still matters to _you,_ though,” Zolf says. “And I am sorry for it. For my part in it, at least. I don’t think I’ve ever said that to you. We didn’t see each other for a long time after Paris. And then we had other things to worry about.”

Wilde doesn’t know what to do with this apology, the full force of Zolf’s conviction felt in each word. He just nods.

“Look, why don’t we give it until morning?” Zolf asks. “If your memories are still gone by then, I’ll see what I can do.”

Wilde looks out the window. Night has fallen while they were still talking. Suddenly, Wilde feels tired. He yawns, unbidden, and then is surprised at himself.

Zolf must see Wilde’s confusion, because he says, “You did manage to fix your sleep schedule eventually. You actually sleep nearly six hours a night, these days, imagine that.”

Wilde gives him a horrified look. “ _Really_?”

Zolf nods, and looks smug. “Wasn’t easy.”

“So you had a hand in it?” Wilde says.

“Had more than a hand in it.” Zolf says it offhandedly, and then seems to realize what he’s said, because he looks sheepish. “Sorry, that’s — that’s inappropriate. We’re not together, you and I. At least I’m not together with this version of you. I should keep those sorts of remarks to myself.”

Wilde’s mouth has fallen open. Zolf Smith and sexual innuendo? Perhaps they _were_ married in the future after all.

“No, that’s all right,” he says, faintly.

Zolf gives him a sidelong look, and then snorts. “Oh, I should have known that _you’d_ be all right with it. But for my sake, I think I — well, it’s probably best not to confuse things.”

“Why not?” Wilde says, snide. “Aren’t we married? What do I call you? Sweetheart? Dearest? Don’t tell me I go by Oscar Smith.” Wilde shudders theatrically.

“I forgot how insufferable you were at this age,” Zolf mutters.

Wilde pouts. “So I’m _less_ insufferable when I’m older? Well, that’s disappointing. I suppose it’s true what they say. Marriage really does make you dull.”

Zolf tilts his head, his eyes fixed on Wilde’s. “It’s all right to be nervous about this, you know,” he says softly, and there’s too much _knowing_ in that for Wilde’s comfort. Wilde feels his expression go blank.

“I’m not nervous,” he says.

“Sure,” Zolf says. “You can take the bed, by the way. I’ll sleep in here.”

“I won’t turn you out of your own bed,” Wilde says.

“It’s your bed too,” Zolf says.

“Then join me in it,” Wilde says. He makes his voice go velvety and coaxing. Was this how he had originally seduced Zolf? It must have been. He trails one hand up Zolf’s arm, stroking his bicep, squeezing it. Zolf doesn’t react at all. “You and I could get reacquainted. You could have me for the first time all over again.”

There is a stubborn set to Zolf’s jaw that Wilde is familiar with even without his older counterpart’s memories. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Zolf says, and this time it’s him who steps away from Wilde’s touch. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah? Get some sleep.”

Wilde nods, ignoring the feeling of disappointment. “Good night,” he says, stiffly, and goes into the bedroom, leaving Zolf there.

Wilde spends a long time pacing around the room, feeling trapped. His mind is still tripping over itself trying to put everything into place, trying to make sense of the circumstances he finds himself in. Will he be gone by morning? Will all of this have faded away? Will he be back to the Oscar Wilde who could stand to live in this place? Who _wants_ to live in this place?

Wilde makes himself look around. He goes through the drawers, the closet. He doesn’t find anything too unsurprising. Most of the clothes are his own, judging by the size. He makes a face. The clothes are unfashionable even in his own time. Clearly his older self’s standards have fallen in that regard. 

Wilde goes to the vanity. Purposefully avoiding looking at his reflection in the mirror, he goes through the trinkets there. Some are familiar. Keepsakes of sentimental value. He doesn’t have many of those. But he’s pleased that he’s managed to keep them nonetheless. A pocketwatch from Robbie. A small portrait of Isola. Touching these familiar things makes him feel less like he’s standing in a stranger’s room, trying to remember a stranger’s life.

He sits on the bed. It’s partially unmade. It’s clear that nothing of this cottage is _neat,_ although it’s not necessarily untidy either. Every corner of it has been given its mark.

Wilde finds himself settling automatically on the left side of the bed without even thinking about it. He reaches into the bedside table and finds a bottle of oil. It’s a pretty sizable bottle, and is more than halfway empty. Clearly it’s seen some use in this room. He puts it back, feeling suddenly like he’s intruding.

Wilde has never had any trouble being nosy when it’s other people’s lives he’s spying on. It’s the fact that he’s spying on himself that makes him so reluctant to learn too much.

  
  
  


In the morning, Wilde still doesn’t remember anything. He blinks up at the ceiling and then turns to his side, his hand reaching to the other side of the bed before he even realizes what he’s doing.

It’s empty. Of course it’s empty. Zolf slept in the other room. But somehow Wilde still expected him to be there by his side. Muscle memory. His body has memories even if his mind does not.

Wilde sits up in bed, feeling unnerved. It’s still early enough to be dark. He grabs a shawl from the closet, wrapping it around himself against the morning chill, and heads into the kitchen. 

Zolf is still asleep on the couch. Wilde watches the rise and fall of his chest for a moment, confused by the calming effect it has on him just to watch Zolf sleep. He shakes his head and goes into the kitchen.

“Tea, tea,” he mutters under his breath, and lets his mind go blank. His hand reaches reflexively for a cupboard. Inside he finds a jar full of tea leaves.

“Well at least that’s good for something,” Wilde says. He turns on the stove and sets the kettle to boil.

Through the window, he can see the sun just beginning to rise. It’s beautiful outside. Rolling hills, a big open sky, scenic as anything. He wonders that Zolf did not want to settle next to the sea. But if he had a falling out with Poseidon that ended in him losing his legs, perhaps that was the reason why.

There are so many years left for him to fill in. He has no idea how he’s gotten here, how he could be here with _Zolf_ , of all people. And clearly his memories aren’t coming back any time soon.

Wilde is so lost in thought he doesn’t notice Zolf coming in until Zolf runs a warm, familiar hand up Wilde’s back and then tugs on Wilde’s shawl, bringing him down for a kiss.

Wilde is so surprised that he freezes. He feels the soft press of Zolf’s lips on his, the sensation of his beard scratching against his cheeks. Zolf breaks the kiss with a low, pleased hum.

“Mornin’,” Zolf says, voice crackly with sleep. And then his eyes open fully. Wilde sees the realization sink in.

“Er,” Wilde says. “Good morning.”

“Oh, fuck,” Zolf says.

“Yes,” Wilde says unhelpfully. “Still me.”

The kettle begins to screech, startling them both.

“I’ll make the tea,” Zolf says quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” Wilde says. He vacates the kitchen immediately. He hears Zolf swear as he exits.

Wilde curls up in his armchair, staring blankly at the wall. He presses his fingers to his lips. It had been a good kiss. It had felt _right_ , even if it had been stolen. Wilde wants to steal more kisses like that from Zolf.

“Don’t be a fool,” he whispers to himself. His face feels flushed for absolutely no reason. For heaven’s sake, it was a _kiss_. Hardly a kiss. A quick press of the lips. Nothing at all.

Zolf comes in presently, holding two cups of tea and an expression that can only be described as “embarrassed”. He hands Wilde his tea. Once again it is made just as Wilde likes, something that he can’t help resenting now. If only Zolf would have the courtesy of at least adding too much milk, or making it too bitter or too weak.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Don’t mention it. I, er, sorry about that earlier,” Zolf says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I forgot that you weren’t, you know. And I didn’t sleep that well. Got confused.”

“I didn’t sleep that well either,” Wilde says. Wilde had tossed and turned for a long time before falling fitfully to sleep. “I think I — must be used to sleeping with someone else in the bed.” What a hateful weakness to inflict on oneself. To let yourself need someone else so badly that you were undone without their presence in this small way. 

“Yeah,” Zolf says quietly. “Think that might be the case.”

“You miss him,” Wilde says.

“You’re right here,” Zolf says. “We just need to get your memories back.”

Wilde brightens. “So you can help get them back?”

“I can try, but I really don’t think—”

“We won’t know unless you do try,” Wilde says impatiently. He puts down his teacup and reaches over and plucks Zolf’s out of his grasp, then goes to sit next to Zolf. Zolf looks taken aback by Wilde’s sudden closeness.

“I was still drinking that.”

“Drink it later,” Wilde says.

“All right, fine,” Zolf grouses. He holds out his hands and lays them against Wilde’s chest. Wilde takes in a sudden breath, and hopes desperately that Zolf cannot feel the way his heart immediately starts beating faster.

He must, though. “Calm down.” Zolf’s voice has gone quiet and rumbling and much too intimate. Wilde forces himself to take a deep breath and relax.

Zolf casts his healing spell, his brow furrowed in concentration. Wilde feels gently, wonderfully, seared with a burning light. It’s a heat that does not hurt, just fills all of him with a brightness he doesn’t remember feeling in a long time, not since before he knew the world better.

The spell ends. Zolf looks up into Wilde’s face.

Wilde smiles hazily at him, still feeling blissed out.

“Oscar? Are your memories back?” Zolf says, and that small note of hope in his voice brings Wilde back to reality. His smile falls away.

“Still me, I’m afraid,” Wilde says. 

Zolf sits back with a sigh. “Yeah, I didn’t think that would work. Memories are strange things. Them leaving ain’t a wound. I’ll have to think of something else.”

“I’m sorry you don’t get to have your Wilde back quite yet,” Wilde says.

Zolf frowns. “Why do you talk about yourself like that?”

“What do you mean?” Wilde asks.

“Your older self. You talk about him like he’s a different person. I’ve noticed.”

“He _is_ a different person. He’s a stranger to me.”

“But you’ll become him.”

Wilde glares at Zolf. “Yes, well I haven’t lived that part yet, have I? I’m sorry I don’t measure up to this older, wiser version of myself. I’m sorry you miss him. I’ll be gone soon enough and then you can have him back.”

“Woah, Oscar. I didn’t say any of that.” Zolf says. “Now, hang on, let me get this right. You’re not — are you getting jealous of _yourself_?”

Fuck.

“No, that would be ridiculous,” Wilde says much too quickly.

Zolf seems to find this all very amusing, judging by the look on his face. 

“I’m _not_ ,” Wilde snaps. “I simply don’t want to _be_ here any longer. This isn’t my life. You’re not my husband. This isn’t my cottage.”

He sees Zolf’s expression tighten. Wilde swallows. He doesn’t know why he feels suddenly guilty.

“Look, just, forget it,” Wilde says, looking down at his hands.

“No, it makes sense,” Zolf says quietly. “Of course you wouldn’t want to be here. You and I — well, we didn’t get along, did we, in the time that you remember?”

“That’s an understatement,” Wilde says. “You threatened to murder me. In front of witnesses, no less.”

Zolf winces. “Yeah. Yes. I’m sorry. About that. I was going through a crisis of faith, if you can believe it. Although that doesn’t justify anythin’. I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

Oh, the amount of times Wilde has idly fantasized about Zolf apologizing to him, like he is now. He decides to keep going, gaining momentum.

“ _And_ there was that time I was doing nothing wrong and you doused me with ice water. And then you threatened to murder me _again_.”

“Nothing wrong?” Zolf repeats incredulously. “Oh, you were being a prick and you know it.”

“A lovable prick,” Wilde says, poking Zolf in the shoulder. “A handsome and charming prick.”

Zolf grabs Wilde’s wrist and leans in, a dangerous smile on his face. “You were an annoying brat, more like. Pretty to look at, though, I’ll grant you.”

That’s — oh.

Zolf sees the expression on Wilde’s face and must interpret it correctly because he snorts and lets go of Wilde’s wrist. He stands up and clears his throat.

“Look, I should go make us some breakfast. And I have chores to do. You can do whatever you want.”

“Chores?” Wilde says.

“The laundry. The gardening. We have chickens,” Zolf says.

Wilde raises his eyebrows. “ _Chickens_.”

“The chickens were _your_ bloody idea,” Zolf says. 

Wilde shakes his head in disbelief. Chickens. What next? He’s been so _domesticated_ in the future.

“And what on earth does this version of me do to pass all this _glorious_ free time?” Wilde says sarcastically. “Other than attend to the _chickens_.”

“You write,” Zolf says. “You sing. You gossip in the village with all the old ladies. You go swimming or on long walks when the weather’s nice.”

“Goodness,” Wilde says, around a sudden lump in his throat at the quiet affection in Zolf’s voice. “Quite the busy schedule.”

Zolf shrugs.

“Could I look through all this writing my older self has done?” Wilde says.

Zolf considers this, stroking his beard. “Funnily enough, we never discussed what to do in this specific scenario. I suppose you can. You keep them in your desk.” He points to the desk in the corner. Wilde goes to it, pulling open the drawers. 

Rows and rows of journals, exactly the kind he likes to keep. He picks one up, rifling through the pages. They are all written in code. His code, specifically. He devised it himself, and he never taught it to anyone else. Only he could have written these words.

“Just — there’s a lot that’s happened these past years, all right? It might get overwhelming. Don’t try to take it in all at once,” Zolf says.

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Wilde says, only paying half attention.

“I'm sure you will. Breakfast first though,” Zolf says, stern. “Eat it before you get distracted with reading and lose track of time and don’t eat a thing until the evening. I know you.”

“I’m not even hungry,” Wilde protests, just as his stomach rumbles treacherously.

“I did train you to get used to eating breakfast too,” Zolf says. He seems pleased with himself.

“Unbelievable,” Wilde says, under his breath.

“Come on, I’ll make you your favorite breakfast,” Zolf says, heading back into the kitchen. 

Wilde frowns and follows Zolf into the kitchen. “I don’t _have_ a favorite breakfast.”

Zolf pulls out a skillet and lights the stove. “You sure about that?”

“You have this very cryptic enigmatic way of speaking now that I don’t much care for,” Wilde says, narrowing his eyes.

“Learned it from the best,” Zolf says, with a wink.

  
  
  


Wilde has to admit that the breakfast Zolf makes for him is incredible. Sweet oatmeal and crisp apples and a stack of fluffy pancakes. Wilde lingers over it for too long, because Zolf starts giving him smug looks in the middle of watching Wilde clean his plate.

After, Zolf goes out to do his chores, leaving Wilde to his own devices. Wilde immediately sits down at the desk, going through the journals. He finds his own journal, the one he remembers writing in during his time. The leather binding is cracked and old, the pages are faded, but he remembers writing some of these entries not too long ago. 

He reads over the last entry he remembers making. It was after he’d gotten back from the airship docks, limping, bloodied, whatever poison he’d been drugged with by La Gourmande’s men still making him sluggish and tired, his throat sore from casting all those illusions. He hadn’t let himself rest, though, had gone straight to finding a way to Prague.

Wilde spends the entire afternoon reading. He reads up to Prague, to Zolf leaving the Rangers, to losing Bertie, to Cairo. 

“Eat some lunch,” Zolf says.

Wilde looks up in surprise, finding that the morning has long passed and late afternoon sunshine is filtering in through the windows. He twists his neck with a wince. It’s gotten stiff as he was bent over reading.

“Ease up on that,” Zolf says. “Your bones aren’t as young as you remember them.”

“I’m fine,” Wilde says, rubbing at the soreness.

Zolf sets down a bowl of what looks like pasta next to Wilde’s elbow. It smells incredible. Wilde’s mouth immediately begins to water.

“Eat,” Zolf says.

Wilde sighs, putting down the journal and starts to eat. It’s delicious. Without meaning to, Wilde makes an appreciative noise. He sees Zolf smile over his own bowl of pasta.

“You left the group in Prague,” Wilde says. “Why?”

“You didn’t write why I left?” Zolf asks.

“I don’t think I _knew_ why,” Wilde says.

Zolf sighs. “It all — it all got a bit much. I couldn’t trust myself with myself, so I _knew_ I couldn’t trust myself with the rest of the group. So I left.” Zolf shrugs. “Fucked around in Prague for a bit, and then after a few months everything sort of fell apart. I guess you’ll read about that later. And then I met up with you.”

“So then the last time we saw each other for a long time was at the docks?” Wilde says. 

“Yeah, it was,” Zolf says. He gives Wilde a look. “It really hurt you, didn’t it? When we left you behind in Paris.”

Wilde scoffs. “No. I know you had to leave me behind. It made sense for the mission. But I suppose there was still this,” he laughs, “foolish hope that you’d come back for me anyway.”

“You’ve never told me this.” Zolf’s voice is soft.

“Then my older self is clearly smarter than I am.”

“Not really,” Zolf says, dry. “You’re both idiots when you want to be.”

This startles a laugh out of Wilde.

“Is that fondness I detect?” Wilde says with a smirk. 

Zolf gives him a look. “We’re married.” 

“Yes. I — yes,” Wilde says, amusement turning sour. He’d forgotten for a moment where he was. Whose life he stepped into.

“I should get back to reading,” Wilde says.

“Hmm. All right,” Zolf says. He steps forward to take Wilde’s empty bowl and then he’s reaching out to stroke Wilde’s cheek, tuck his hair behind his ear. Wilde stops breathing for a moment, caught in that small act of affection. 

For a second, he can almost believe that it’s meant for him.

  
  
  


> _It has been three months now since Sasha, Grizzop, Hamid, and Azu went to Rome. I can only assume that they are dead now, and operate under this belief. These days, nothing returns from Rome. Nevertheless, we send Einstein to check the site of their disappearance periodically. It is as Zolf says. We can’t give up on them entirely._
> 
> _Sometimes I wonder if Zolf blames me for their deaths. I know that he blames himself._

Wilde stops reading, his heart clawing up his throat. He stands up, his legs stiff from sitting all day. It’s dark in the cottage now, other than the light he lit by his desk. 

“Zolf,” he calls. “Zolf?”

There is no answer.

Wilde goes outside. He sweeps his eyes over the front yard. In the distance, he can see more lights, other houses. The rest of the village. To his right he can hear the soft sounds of chickens rustling.

“Zolf,” he says, louder.

“Right here,” Zolf says, from just to his left. Wilde turns and sees Zolf holding a large pile of wood. Zolf sees the look on Wilde’s face and sighs.

“Let me put these down first,” Zolf says. Wilde follows him around to the woodshed, where Zolf carefully stacks the wood into a pile. Zolf straightens with a grunt and then brings Wilde to the front of the cottage again, sitting down on one of the chairs on the porch.

Wilde sits down tentatively. It’s a gorgeous view of the setting sun from here. He wonders how often Zolf and his older counterpart do this. Just sit outside in each other’s quiet company, a game of cards between them perhaps, or a glass of wine. Could this really be something that Wilde will get to have one day?

“All right, where did you get up to now?” Zolf asks.

“Three months after Rome,” Wilde says. That was the furthest he could bring himself to read. All the while searching every page for evidence of Sasha and Hamid’s return. But he has to know now.

“Did they make it out?” Wilde asks Zolf.

“Hamid and Azu did,” Zolf says, an old grief weighing in his words. “Sasha and Grizzop didn’t.”

“Oh,” Wilde says. How strange, to mourn a thing he’s already mourned in the past and just doesn’t remember. Poor Sasha. Wilde had always respected her, even if he wasn’t the kindest person about it. In his journal, it was clear that his future self had liked her very much. That her loss had affected him greatly. 

And Grizzop. Wilde doesn’t know him yet himself, but in his journal it’s clear that Wilde respected him too. Grizzop saved him in Cairo, when he didn’t have to. Wilde has no doubt that he would have died in that city without Grizzop’s help.

“What happened to them? Why didn’t they come back?” Wilde asks.

“They fell out of time,” Zolf says. “Ended up somewhere they couldn’t come back from. Sasha was happy, though. She ended up living her life out in Rome, a few thousand years ago.”

Wilde twists his head to look at Zolf in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“She left us a message,” Zolf says, with a smile.

Wilde smiles too. “She always was clever.”

“Yeah,” Zolf says softly. “She was.”

“Hamid and Azu are all right?” Wilde asks.

“Yeah,” Zolf says. “Hamid lives in Cairo these days. Azu’s getting on in years, went back to Kenya. They’re both doing all right. They popped out of that same spot in Rome about a year and a half after they first went in.”

“And we were together that entire time?” Wilde asks.

“More or less,” Zolf says. “We were both missing our friends. The world was a shitshow. We watched each other’s backs. We couldn’t trust anyone else, those days.”

“But we trusted each other,” Wilde says.

“Got on each other’s nerves more than half the time,” Zolf says, smiling a little. “I almost wholesale quit when you recruited Barnes.”

“I haven’t gotten to that part yet,” Wilde says.

“Oh, well, I’ll let you read it then. You’ve always been better at telling stories than I am. That’s what I have you for.”

Wilde shakes his head. “No, I want to hear it from you. I’m sick of reading, these old bones keep creaking.”

Zolf studies him for a long moment. Wilde does his best to appear inscrutable, but Zolf laughs a little anyway, like he’s just caught Wilde in a lie. He holds out his hands. 

“All right, but let me fix your neck before it goes completely stiff.”

“Fine,” Wilde says.

Zolf gets up, stands behind Wilde’s chair. When Wilde feels Zolf’s hands on his shoulders, he expects to feel a healing spell soon after. But instead, Zolf’s hands tighten, his thumb pressing exactly at the knot in Wilde’s muscles. There is a moment of pain, and then Wilde’s muscles unlock, going loose and wonderful.

“Oh,” Wilde moans, at the feeling of sudden relief.

“Yeah, you always get stiff right about here,” Zolf says, his thumb pressing deep circles into the sore tightness at Wilde’s shoulders.

“That’s a good trick you’ve learned there,” Wilde says, breathless.

“I know,” Zolf says. Wilde can hear him smiling.

“All right. What do you want to know?” Zolf asks.

Wilde realizes that he’s gone completely pliant under the press of Zolf’s hands, his eyes going unfocused. He snaps them open again.

“Yes, I — was I right about Shoin? In Japan? Was that what was causing the weather anomalies?” Wilde asks.

Zolf snorts. “Yeah, you were right.”

Wilde smiles. And then Zolf does something with his fingers again that has him sighing again. Gods, if this was what married life was like, then perhaps it was worth it after all.

“Anything else?” Zolf asks. 

“I haven’t gotten up to the part where I get my injury,” Wilde says. “The one that turned my hair white, that you think is causing my lost memories.”

Zolf’s hands on him go still.

“Were you the one who healed me from it?”

“No,” Zolf says. His hands press again, tightly, working out that last bit of tension. And then Zolf withdraws his hands, walking back to his chair and sitting down. Wilde can’t read the expression on his face at all.

“You’d gone somewhere I couldn’t save you,” Zolf says. “Not on my own.”

“We were apart?” Wilde asks quietly.

Zolf studies his hands for a long moment before answering. “You were dead, Oscar."

“Excuse me?” Wilde says, blinking. He did not expect this.

Zolf leans forward. “On our way to Svalbard, you died. You — we were on an airship, and that airship crashed and you fell. The fall killed you. And then — I got you back.”

“How is that — even possible?” Wilde says. Resurrection magic is the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales. Wilde stopped believing his life would be a fairy tale a _very_ long time ago.

“We had help. The Ursans who live up there. They made it so that we could bring your souls back before they left.”

Wilde quickly rearranges all of his rational understanding of how the world works and keeps going. “Then — what does my death eight years ago have to do with this? With my memories being gone?”

“The druid who brought you back said that sometimes when souls return, they could get _unsettled_. They weren’t perfectly back, you see. They still remembered, you know, what lies beyond. When I went after you in there, you weren’t yourself. You were a younger version of yourself. Kind of like you are now. I had to convince you to come back with me.”

So Wilde owes his life to Zolf. It staggers him, the immensity of that truth.

“But when I came back, I had all my memories?” Wilde asks.

Zolf nods.

“Then how do we get them back?” Wilde asks. “Surely this druid must know. Can we ask them?”

“They’re a bit hard to reach,” Zolf says. “But I think I have an idea or two of what to try. I’ve sent word. I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Oh,” Wilde says. “Thank you.”

Zolf reaches over and pats Wilde’s hand, once, twice. Like it’s an unspoken code. 

“I got your soul back once,” Zolf says. “I can do it again.”


End file.
